


Where I Kiss the Blood From

by sarkywoman



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Intoxication, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-15 10:35:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/848509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarkywoman/pseuds/sarkywoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Snow had wanted it. He <i>had</i>.'</p>
<p>Written for a prompt over at ASOIAF Kink Meme. Something like 'Jon changes his mind, but Theon has never had much restraint'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where I Kiss the Blood From

Afterwards, alone in his own room, Theon remembers Jon’s lips. Soft and feminine. It had been like kissing a sweet girl. And those eyes, grey like the seas that Theon had not sailed in years. They had haunted his dreams, but now he has a memory to treasure. Now he can say those deft hands had touched him. No longer must he envy the sword in the bastard’s palm. Not just that, but Theon has seen every part of him. The hidden places. The secrets that Snow kept from man and woman alike were exposed to Theon’s touch, Theon’s kiss, Theon’s prick.

The wine had helped of course. It was sweet but strong, staining Jon’s full lips a deep crimson like blood. Theon and Jon had talked like never before, friendly and foolish from drink. When they kissed Theon could taste it as though he had taken another sip from Snow’s mouth. The bastard had been confused and surprised, grey eyes fogged with a drinker’s haze. Theon had kissed him again to watch his dark eyelashes flutter down, lulled by the kiss as if he had never been kissed before. Jon had followed Theon’s lead well enough, first with the kiss and then with fumbling hands on their clothes. The wine hindered him there, clever hands made clumsy. Theon had to help him undress. That had its advantages though, letting Theon open Jon’s breeches like he was unwrapping a name day present. What a lovely gift it was too, growing hard and ready for its first game. Theon would wager no hand other than Jon’s own had caressed it before. He had practically guided Jon to the bed with it, stroking and teasing until Jon was beneath him on the furs. When his touches went lower Theon found the wine had relaxed Jon in every way.

Well, maybe not every way. Theon can still remember how Snow had started to complain, whining that Theon was hurting him. He clearly had no idea how rough things could become in the bedroom. It was around that point that Jon had started to ask to stop. Well, beg, really. These were the little annoyances one had to deal with when bedding virgins. If Jon had not wanted Theon in his bed then he should never have led him there, which is exactly what Theon said to him. Clearly the wine had brought out the true little slut that lived under that frigid bastard façade. Jon had closed his eyes when Theon said that. Scrunched them shut, clutching the furs beneath him with white knuckles as though he was about to go through some terrifying ordeal. He was a bastard, he was supposed to enjoy this sort of thing. He was just trying to hide it because he was embarrassed. No man wanted to admit to a whore’s appetites, bastard or no. Of course Jon had to say no to what he really craved. He could plead all he wanted, but Theon could feel the hardening of his prick. Not as full and thick and ready as his own, but evidence nonetheless. Theon strokes himself now just thinking about it, about the way Jon’s skin felt against his own as he slid the leaking head of his prick over the curve of Jon’s. That fluid had not been quite enough to ease him into Jon’s tight passage, if the cries were any indication, so Theon had spit in his palm and used that too. Not that Jon had appreciated his chivalry. Theon could not entirely blame his reluctance – the bastard was so tight Theon could barely get in.

There was blood. The memory of it hinders Theon’s hand on his prick. He had not meant for Snow’s first time to be quite so rough. He had been so tight though, it had not been Theon’s fault that he tore. Maybe if he had relaxed as he had been told to, rather than trying to keep Theon out. It will be easier next time, now that he has been broken in. The first time always hurts. 

It would have hurt him less if he had stopped bloody struggling. Whenever he pushed himself away with his feet on the furs Theon had to drag him back and shove in again, which meant he could not work up a good, slow rhythm to ease him into it. He had tried to make it good and the bastard repaid him by fighting it and lashing out at him drunkenly with his fists. He had soon stopped that when Theon fought back. 

He can still feel the impact on the back of his hand. When he looks, there is a smudge of blood. The rest he had kissed away or licked from the lip he had split. It had looked like a whore’s paint, blood dribbling over wine-stains. When he closes his eyes he can see it in front of him. Theon had worried the cut with his teeth. Even now he fancies he can hear Jon’s pained moan.

At the time Jon’s whimpers and gasps had spurred him on, urged Theon’s hips into faster thrusts and coaxed him into kissing and biting at the bastard’s pale neck. Now he thinks on it, he is no longer sure which ones were moans of pleasure and which were due to pain. He remembers the tears, trailing down Jon’s pale cheeks onto the furs beneath him. But Snow had always been a cry-baby, always prone to weeping over the most meagre slight. 

Besides, pain and pleasure often go hand in hand. No sense in crying over a little blood when they both got what they wanted. Theon has never tried getting fucked, but a boy-whore once assured him it felt as good as fucking for some. There was no way Snow had not enjoyed himself, bruises and all. Theon strokes himself faster as he remembers spilling inside the bastard’s hole. He even took Jon’s prick in hand to finish him off. 

Jon had been limp though.

Theon lets go of himself, no longer in the mood. Snow had wanted it. He _had_.

A knock on the door draws him out of his thoughts. When he tugs up his breeches and answers it, Robb Stark is stood before him. The look on his face is that of a wolf ready to devour the man who kicked it. When he speaks, his voice is a growl.

“Greyjoy, my father needs to see you.”

There is no need to ask why.


End file.
